


It’s the Damnedest Thing

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-12
Updated: 2009-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the damnedest thing but Jim thinks he’s just about got it figured out.  There’s a snot-nosed kid in room 3 with the biggest damn green eyes he’s ever seen and the punk’s been batting them at anyone who’ll stand still long enough.  <i>(Or Dean gets picked up for being a possible witness/suspect in a case of Grand Theft Auto and Arson but he's such a slut for authority figures.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s the Damnedest Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Livejournal 8-28-16.

**Title:** It’s the Damnedest Thing  
**Author:** [](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/profile)[**dragonspell**](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/)  
**Series:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** OMCxDean  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Pre-series. Underage (Dean's 17)(nothing actually happens). OutsidePOV.  
**Summary:** It’s the damnedest thing but Jim thinks he’s just about got it figured out. There’s a snot-nosed kid in room 3 with the biggest damn green eyes he’s ever seen and the punk’s been batting them at anyone who’ll stand still long enough. _(Or Dean gets picked up for being a possible witness/suspect in a case of Grand Theft Auto and Arson but he's such a slut for authority figures.)_  
**Word Count:** 3155  
**A/N:** This was written because of a comment made by [](http://soulsister16.livejournal.com/profile)[**soulsister16**](http://soulsister16.livejournal.com/) to a previous fic: "Dean's such a slut for authority figures." This fic's not particularly porny while that one was, but this is what started writing itself in my head after I read that comment. So thank you. =)

  
It’s the damnedest thing but Jim thinks he’s just about got it figured out. There’s a snot-nosed kid in room 3 with the biggest damn green eyes he’s ever seen and the punk’s been batting them at anyone who’ll stand still long enough. He’s also nothing but attitude, too, apparently from what Jorgenson has been telling him. Jorgenson got a hold of the kid first because his collar so his case but Jorgenson’s still just a little bit green and for someone like the kid: it’s the same as putting a baby in a shark tank. As soon as they’d entered the interrogation room, the kid’d taken one look at Jorgenson and smelled fresh meat. He’d put on his sweetest smile and batted his pretty green eyes as he led a merry little chase through a bunch of nonsense answers like the damn white rabbit in _Alice in Wonderland._

Which is why Jim’s here, looking through a window at the kid who’s now sitting alone in the room, glancing at his bare surroundings. He is a pretty one—the big eyes going well with his full lips—and Jorgenson had already threatened with the classic line of the kid not doing well in prison. Hadn’t phased the punk one bit, just made him smile wider and Jim gets the feeling that the kid would handle himself just fine in prison. Made even too fine.

Anyway, for all of Jorgenson’s bluster, the kid hadn’t told him jack, just giving him a bunch of bullshit just because he knew he could get away with it. Jorgenson had picked the kid up outside a 7/11 on suspicion of grand theft auto and arson a few hours ago and the kid’s been insisting on his innocence and ignorance the entire time he’s been here. Jim doesn’t necessarily think that the kid did it, but he was pretty sure the kid had a clue about who might of.

He’s a street rat, all threadbare shirt, torn jeans and battered leather jacket not because it looks cool but just because that’s all he can afford. Everyone in the precinct knows that there’s nobody that will miss the kid which is why he’s been here for so long without even a telephone call. He’s just been sitting in room three and he’s got to be getting hungry by now. Or at least thirsty. Jorgenson hasn’t given him anything despite the kid’s nettling hints just because he’s so pissed off.

It’d almost come to blows in there—Jorgenson shouting angrily while the kid just sat there grinning, silently daring him to take a swing. That would be why Jorgenson is currently pacing in another empty room, trying to work off some steam and Jim is here in his stead.

Jim quietly leaves the observation room to head into the actual interrogation room. The kid glances his way as he hears the door click—sharp reflexes, that one—but at seeing Jim rather than Jorgenson, his mocking smirk falters. Jim knew it would. He looks nothing like Jorgenson—he’s not a pretty boy desperate to command a little respect. Jim could give a fuck less if you respect him or not because in the end, you’re still going to tell him what he wants to know.

Jim pads to the table to stand in front of it, watching the attitude just drain right off the kid until he’s staring blankly at Jim. Waiting for Jim to show him what mask he needs. Jim feels a glimmer of amusement but doesn’t let it show—kid’s good for an inexperienced punk. He’s not good enough to slide effortlessly into an immediate counter but he is smart enough to know that the same tricks that worked on Jorgenson aren’t going to do shit on Jim. Jim gives the kid a flat look, just watching the kid’s mind spin in circles and letting him stew for awhile. The kid finally glances away, shifting on the hard chair and Jim nods.

“Are you thirsty?” he asks. The kid stares at him suspiciously, rightly suspecting a trick and not about to fall for it. Jim walks to the side of the corner of the table and the kid watches him the entire way, not daring to let Jim out of his sight. Jim jerks his head at the closed door. “There’s a Coke machine right outside,” he says. “Can get you one if you want.”

The kid swallows, betraying himself even as he says, “No thanks.”

“I’ll get you one,” Jim counters like the kid had said yes. The kid blinks at him and Jim heads out into the hall to grab the can of pop. Jim knows that the kid’s expecting strong arm tactics like Jorgenson’s—all tough guy swagger and threats. He also knows that the kid’s probably an expert at dealing with that kind of approach.

The Coke’s cold and sweating as he sets it on the table in front of the kid and the kid stares at covetously. He wants to take it—Jim can see it in his eyes—but he doesn’t dare. Jim gives him a long minute to think it over before continuing. After all, you can bring a horse to water but you can’t make them drink. He steps close to the table and looks down at the kid who finally manages to pry his eyes away from the can of pop sitting there. “I don’t think you did it,” he says. The kid’s face gives away nothing but his palms flatten against the table. Jim cocks his head before letting the other shoe drop. “But I think you know who did.” He’s still getting that same, blank look.

It’s okay. Jim’s dealt with blank looks before. He leans down, not threatening but not necessarily friendly either. “Just so we’re clear: it would be best if you told me. A witness saw you in the garage next to the burned out car.” Which actually says nothing more than maybe he was just passing by but Jim’s not going to let the kid know that. The kid looks away to stare just over Jim’s shoulder so Jim straights back up. “What’s your name?” he asks, not that Jorgenson hasn’t asked 15 different times already.

The kid’s response to Jim’s version of the question, though, is quieter and less cocky than all the ones he threw in Jorgenson’s face. “…Joe Perry.”

“Your real name.” There was no ID on the kid, he’s not in the system, and no one at the precinct has seen him before so without even a name, they’ve got nothing and the kid knows it. So far he’s been Tyler Perry, Robert Paige, and William Hudson and that was before he’d stopped even trying and started throwing out names like James Hetfield, Keith Richards, and Ozzy fucking Osbourne. A classic rock fan, apparently.

“That is my real name,” the kid says, same as he’s said every other time, except again, it’s more subdued. His eyes flick back to Jim’s, pretending to be a picture of complete innocence.

“I can’t help you unless you help me,” Jim sighs, soft and quiet.

The kid turns to stare at the wall again. “You guys didn’t believe my real name.”

“Tyler Perry.” Jim takes a second to let the ‘name’ hang in the air before continuing on. “You could have done better on that one.”

Obviously not too proud himself, the kid shrugs. He’s eyeing the Coke again and Jim pushes it closer to him. Startled by the moving can, the kid stares at Jim instead. “It’s okay if you want it,” Jim says. “You’re not in the system, so we don’t have your DNA on file.”

The kid stares at the Coke and licks his lips slowly like he’s dying of thirst but glances away anyway. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Jim puts his hands against the table and leans down again, going farther this time, more into the kid’s space. Then he stays there, just quietly looking at him.

The kid manages to ignore the silence and Jim being in his face for a solid 30 seconds before he’s glancing back at Jim with those big green eyes. Pretty as a girl’s those eyes and Jim’s willing to bet they’ve already gotten him in trouble more than once. Something else about them, too—they’re starting to dilate. Not much, just a little, and if Jim wasn’t so close, he probably wouldn’t even be noticing, except he’s pretty sure that even from a few feet away, he’d still notice the ragged hitch that’s developing in the kid’s breathing. Well good. About time the punk got scared.

As soon as he thinks that, though, he notices the small blush starting in the kid’s cheeks and he realizes that it’s not fear he’s looking at. It’s arousal.

 _Well son of a bitch,_ Jim thinks. He just barely manages to keep himself where he is, instead of backpedaling like crazy. He’s finally got a reaction out of the kid that isn’t born out of complete cockiness and even though it kind of unnerves Jim to know he’s turning the kid on, he’s not going to give up on exploiting this particular weakness.

Like he knows that Jim’s aware of what’s going on, the kid’s slight blush turns into a full-fledged one and he jerks his eyes away to stare resolutely at the wall. Jim’s now presented with a view of the kid’s ear and close-cropped brown hair. He wrestles with himself for a few hard moments before he gives in to the impulse that screaming for attention: he blows on the kid’s ear.

With a leap, the punk’s out of his seat, knocking the chair over as he clutches his ear and retreats to the wall. His breathing is even faster than before and Jim’s expecting a shouted retort, a frantic grab for his manhood back, but instead the kid just stands there, staring. Jim stares back and away from the table, the kid can’t hide that he’s hard. Jim blinks slow and leisurely straightens. He watches the kid sag back against the wall as Jim walks around the table, heading to where the kid is definitely waiting.

In the back of his mind, Jim’s desperately wanting to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing, playing with fire like this but it’s a distant thought. More front and center is Jim’s ponderings on what exact kinks the kid has and how he might have gotten them. It’s not necessarily the badge, Jim knows. With Jorgenson, who’s 5’ 8”, 160 lbs, and a pretty boy, the kid had been nothing but sheer attitude, mouthing off and goading even with the badge and the threats. Like he knew that Jorgenson’s all bark and no bite.

It’s right there that Jim thinks he’s got it and it’s the damnedest thing. He stops in front of the kid, barely giving him any space at all but the kid doesn’t look like he’s going to be protesting anytime soon. He’s blinking up at Jim with those big green eyes dark and hot, lowering his lashes like a seasoned pro, and he’s licking his plush lips again, in quiet anticipation this time and not thirst. Jim places a hand against the wall just over the kid’s shoulder, leaning into his space again and using every bit of the 6 inches he’s got on the kid to loom. Damned if the kid doesn’t melt into the damn wall and Jim knows he’s got it.

“You’re going to tell me what I want to know,” Jim says and the kid abandons all pretense of not being turned on and whines low in his throat. It’s not just the badge. It’s the size and how it’s used. The kid looks just about ready to cream his pants or drop to his knees or maybe both but they’re saved from that little sticky situation by a knock on the door.

Snapped back into his rational mind, Jim puts a few feet of a jailbait buffer zone between him and the kid, taking a deep breath as his conscience comes and kicks him in the ass. What the hell did he think he was just doing? How did he think he was going to be able to explain _that_ one away? It’s one thing to explain a slap—tough but doable—but how do you explain why your witness-cum-suspect who just happens to be minor suddenly came in his jeans? Jim turns away from the kid and scrubs a hand over his mouth before he heads for the door and opens it. “Yes?” he growls.

Jorgenson’s there, looking pissed but so is Mackenzie which can’t mean anything good for their case. “Kid’s father’s here,” Mackenzie says, “and he wants to know why you’ve been holding his kid for over six hours without letting him know.”

Jim turns back to look at the kid who’s managed to scrape himself off the wall. And it’s the _damnedest thing._ At the mention of his father, the kid’s perked right back up into his all of his original cockiness times two. He grins, real slow at Jim before turning that grin positively evil and sliding it over to Jorgenson.

Jorgenson glowers right back. “Apparently the guy—” ‘guy’ not ‘father’ and Jim notices the word switch— “says he’s been looking all over town for the kid.”

“Is he a suspect?” Mackenzie asks, cutting straight through any potential bullshit.

“Yes,” Jorgenson replies automatically.

“No.” Jim ignores Jorgenson’s glare and looks at Mackenzie. “No, he’s not.”

“Good then,” Mackenzie says. “We’ll just give him back to his father then and get them both out of the station.” Jorgenson punches the wall and stalks away, knowing he can’t argue with Jim’s decision or Mackenzie’s reaction while Mackenzie waves a hand at the kid. “Come on, kid, your dad’s waiting.”

The kid saunters to the door, all confident bravado and smiles winningly at Mackenzie. Jim feels his heart skip a beat and he curses himself for being a fool but glancing down at Mackenzie he sees that he’s not the only one. Matter of fact, he’s not the one getting the full-brunt of the kid’s attention and it looks like Mackenzie’s feeling it. She’s a tough old bitch, hard as fucking nails and got more steel in her than the entire freaking building but she’s just melting like she’s a fifteen year old girl again. “Thanks, officer,” the kid says, voice as sweet as can be.

“Not a problem, honey,” Mackenzie says and know Jim knows that there had to be something in that coffee he drank today because Mackenzie never uses pet names. He raises an eyebrow at her and she flushes—fucking _flushes_ —and moves away. She knows he’s caught her simpering. She clears her throat and heads off down the hall. “This way.”

The kid nods and moves to follow, he’s just got to walk past Jim first and wouldn’t you know it but he’s not just going to passively go, either. He gives Jim a searing up and down look, confident about himself in a way that Jim hasn’t seen him be yet, and licks his lips again, slow and deliberate. “Another time,” the kid says. “Sir.” The kid throws the word like a dart and fuck all if it doesn’t hit its target ‘cause Jim has a sudden urge to slam the kid up against the wall and get him to say it again. Maybe on his knees this time.

Lucky for Jim, though, the kid doesn’t give him a chance, giving him a last smile before strutting down the hall. Jim breathes out slowly and kicks himself for how close he was to losing control. After 16 years, you’d think he’d be better at playing these games but apparently all it takes is a pretty punk with big green eyes, full lips and a fetish for authority figures to knock him for a loop. Fucking damn it.

After getting himself back tightly under wraps, grabbing his libido and giving it a swift talking to, Jim follows Mackenzie and the kid out into the main room of the department. Like a fucking wrecking ball, Jim suddenly sees the reason for the kid’s complex standing right there in the middle of the precinct.

The man’s tall with dark hair and a scruff covered face, looking gruff and all business. Jim can see ex-military in the way that he stands and knows that the man’s probably already cased the room without anyone even knowing. Right now, though, he’s only got eyes for his son. The kid saunters straight up to the man, standing in front of him and looking like he’s trying to decide if he should salute his superior officer or hug his father. As Jim watches, the kid’s dad takes the choice away from him, reaching out a big hand to cup the back of his son’s head and roughly pull him to his father’s chest. The kid goes willingly, resting a cheek against he father’s flannel shirt and being a kid seeking comfort for half a moment before he pushes back and retreats a few inches, becoming the cocky punk again.

The dad talks with a few officers, his voice low and growling as he sorts out a few details and Jim keeps his eyes on the kid. Next to his father, the kid doesn’t have eyes for anything else at the moment, like he trusts his father to make it all right and knows that he doesn’t have to do a thing. That Dad’s going to take care of him. What really catches Jim’s attention, though, is the kid’s twitching right hand. Standing just slightly in front of his father and turned in towards him, the hand’s almost hidden from the entire room but from Jim’s angle he can still see it. It reaches up to run a finger lightly over the dad’s leather jacket, just gently stroking before it falls back down.

Jim narrows his eyes at the kid’s little tell and glances back over at the dad who’s now turning to talk to his son who looks like the sun has finally come up again after being away for a month. Thinking back to the interrogation room and the way the kid submitted so willingly to him—to a man that, Jim’s not going to lie, looks remarkably like the kid's father except possibly taller—and adding it to the way the kid’s reacting now, Jim can’t help but wonder if there’s something going on there. It’s the detective in him.

But it doesn’t matter because the father’s broad arm is encircling his son’s shoulders, dragging the boy into a quasi-hug and the kid looks like he just won the damn lottery as they walk out of the precinct and out of Jim’s life. It’s the damnedest thing.  



End file.
